蜗牛和玫瑰树
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Around the garden ran a hedge of hazels; beyond this hedge lay fields and meadows, with cows and sheep; but in the midst of the garden stood a blooming Rose Tree; and under it lived a Snail, who had a good deal in his shell―namely, himself.
"Wait till my time comes!" he said: "Ｉ shall do something more than produce roses and bear nuts; or give milk, like the cows and the sheep!"
"I expect a great deal of you", said the Rose Tree."But may I ask when it will appear?"
"I take my time." replied the Snail. "You are always in such a hurry. You don't rouse people's interest by suspense. "
Next year the Snail lay almost in the same spot, in the sunshine under the Rose Tree, which again bore buds that bloomed into roses, always fresh, always new. And the Snail crept half-way out, put out its horns and then drew them in again.
"Everything looks just like last year. There has been no progress. The Rose Tree sticks to roses; it gets no farther."
The summer passed, the autumn came; the Rose Tree had always flowers and buds, until the snow fell and the weather became raw and cold; then the Rose Tree bowed its head and the Snail crept into the ground.
A new year began; and the roses came out, and the Snail came out also.
"You're an old Rose Tree now!" said the Snail. "You must make haste and come to an end, for you have given the world all that was in you; whether it was of any use is a question that I have had no time to consider; but so much is clear and plain, that you have done nothing at all for your own development, or you would have produced something else. How can you answer for that? In a little time you will be nothing at all but a stick. Do you understand what I say?"
"You alarm me!" replied the Rose Tree. "I never thought of that at all."
"No, you have not taken the trouble to consider anything. Have you ever given an account to yourself, why you bloomed, and how it is that your blooming comes about―why it is thus, and not otherwise."
"No," answered the Rose Tree. "Ｉ bloomed in gladness, because I could not do anything else. The sun was so warm, and the air so refreshing. I drank the pure dew and the fresh rain, and I lived, I breathed. Out of the earth there arose a power within me, from above there came down a strength; I perceived a new ever-increasing happiness, and consequently I was obliged to bloom over and over again; that was my life; I could not do otherwise."
"You have led a very pleasant life," observed the Snail.
"Certainly. Everything was given to me," said the Rose Tree. "But more still was given to you. You are one of those deep thoughtful characters, one of those highly gifted spirits, which will cause the world to marvel."
"I've no intention of doing anything of the kind," cried the Snail. "The world is nothing to me. What have I to do with the world? I have enough of myself and in myself."
"But must we not all, here on earth, give to others the best that we have, and offer what lies in our power? Certainly I have only given roses. But you―you who have been so richly gifted―what have you given to the world? what do you intend to give?"
"What have I given―what do I intend to give? I spit at it. It's worth nothing. It's no business of mine. Continue to give your roses, if you like; you can't do anything better. Let the hazel bush bear nuts, and the cows and ewes give milk; they have their public; but I have mine within myself―I retire within myself, and there I remain. The world is nothing to me."
And so the Snail retired into his house, and closed up the entrance after him.
"That is very sad!" said the Rose Tree. "Ｉ cannot creep into myself, even if I wish it―Ｉ must continue to produce roses. They drop their leaves, and are blown away by the wind. But I saw how a rose was laid in the matron's hymn-book, and one of my roses had a place on the bosom of a fair young girl, and another was kissed by the lips of a child in the full joy of life. That did me good; it was a real blessing. That's my remembrance―my life!"
And the Rose Tree went on blooming in innocence, while the Snail lay idly in his house―the world did not concern him.
And years rolled by.
The Snail had become dust in the dust and the Rose Tree was earth in the earth; the rose of remembrance in the hymn-book was faded, but in the garden bloomd fresh rose trees, in the garden grew new snails; and these still crept into their houses, and spat at the world, for it did not concern them.
Suppose we begin the story again, and read it right through. It will never alter.
花园周围，绕着榛树围成的篱笆。篱笆外面是土地和草场，牛羊在草地上吃草。在花园中间，有一株正在开花的玫瑰树。树下住着一只蜗牛，他的壳里有好多东西――那就是他自己。
“等着我的好时光吧!”他说，“我要做的事业，可比开花或者结果要强，也比那些牛羊产奶要强!”
“我期待着你成就大事业，”玫瑰树说，“但我可以问问，那是什么时候的事呢?”
“我能把握我的时间，”蜗牛答道，“你总是匆匆忙忙的，不懂怎么搞点悬念，吊吊人们的胃口。”
第二年，蜗牛几乎还在老地方，躺在透过玫瑰树射过来的阳光里。玫瑰树长出花苞，开出了玫瑰花儿，花儿总是那么清新。蜗牛从地上爬出一半身子，伸了一下触角，然后又缩了回去。
“―切还都像去年―样，没有什么变化。玫瑰树还是开着玫瑰花儿，我看也就这样了。”
夏季过去了，秋天来临。玫瑰树总是开花，又冒出新的花骨朵儿，直到雪花飘落下来，天气变得阴湿寒冷。玫瑰树低下它的头，蜗牛又爬回了地下。
新的一年又开始了，玫瑰花开放，蜗牛也爬了出来。
“你现在是一棵老玫瑰树了!”蜗牛说，“你得抓紧点，你很快就会 走到生命的尽头，因为你把自己的所有全都给了这个世界。这倒底有没有用，我也没有时间去考虑，但有一点是十分清楚明白的，那就是你没有为自己的发展做过什么努力。不然的话，你还能长出点别的什么东西来。你对此怎么解释?不久，你就什么也不是啦，只会成为一根树棍。你明白我说的话吗？”
“别吓唬我!”玫瑰树答道，“我从不考虑这些事情。”
“是啊，你从没有费心考虑过什么事情。你曾经考虑过吗，你为什么要开花，你的花儿是怎么开出来的――为什么是这样，而不是别样呢？”
“没有，”玫瑰树答道，“我在快乐中开花，因为我不能去做别的事情。太阳那么温暖，空气那么清新。我喝着纯净的露水和清新的雨水，我生长，我呼吸。下面的土地给了我力量，上面的天空给了我生机。我感受到一种新的、不断成长的快乐，因此我就一次次地开花。那就是我的生活，我别无选择。”
“你倒是过得挺快活的，”蜗牛说。
“当然啦，我得到了一切，”玫瑰树说，“但你得到的东西更多。你是那种善于沉思的人，属于天赋很高的一类，能让全世界为之惊叹。”
“我可没想去做那种事，”蜗牛叫道，“世界对我来说不值一提。我跟世界有什么关系?我自己的东西，我身体拥有的一切，就足够了。”
“但我们地球上的万物，不是都把自己最好的东西献给别人吗?把我们力所能及的都提供出来吗?我当然只能提供玫瑰花儿。但你――像你这样一个天赋极高的――你给世界一些什么东西呢?你到底想给什么？”
“我想给什么――我到底想给什么呢?我想朝这个世界吐口痰!它不值一提!它和我没有关系。你继续献出你的玫瑰花吧，只要你乐意，你也做不了什么更出色的事业来。让榛子树丛结果吧，让牛羊产奶吧，它们有它们的受众。但我也有我自己的归缩――我缩进自己的身子，一动不动。世界与我没有关系。”
于是蜗牛又缩进自己的房子里，关上了身后的入口。
“真让人伤感!”玫瑰树说，“即使我想缩进自己的身体，我也缩不进去――我还得继续开花儿。花瓣落下来，被风儿卷走。但我曾经看见，一位主妇是怎样把一朵玫瑰花放到自己的圣诗集里去的，我的一朵玫瑰花被放在了一个漂亮姑娘的怀里，另一朵被一个充满生命快乐的孩子用嘴唇去亲吻。这让我很高兴，这才是真正的幸福。那是我的记忆――我的生活!”
于是，玫瑰树继续天真地开着花儿，而蜗牛则躺在自己的屋里无所事事――外面的世界也不关心它。
日子一年一年地过去了。
蜗牛成了灰尘中的灰尘，玫瑰树成了泥土中的泥土。圣诗集中留作纪念的那朵玫瑰花儿已经枯萎了。但在花园里，新的一丛玫瑰树又开着花儿，新的一群蜗牛又在生长――他们还是爬进自己的屋里，朝着世界吐口水，因为世界不关心它们。
设想一下，让我们重写一遍，通读一遍这个故事――故事仍然不会改变。